


reruns all become our history

by timorous_scribe



Category: Glee
Genre: Control Dynamics, F/F, Humor, Oral Sex, PWP, Power Struggle, Secret Relationship, Smut, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timorous_scribe/pseuds/timorous_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A camcorder accidentally left on in the choir room catches more than the Glee club’s performances, unbeknownst to the stars of the video. Spoilers: S2-up to Born This Way, I guess. Bartie and Fuinn are together, Brittana and Finchel are not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reruns all become our history

**Author's Note:**

> Random Pezberry smut. Is mostly funny (as intended) until the end, which has a touch of angst. Angst is my native language and I have trouble with translations to other genres (hence the exercise). May or may not get a follow up, still undetermined. Thanks for reading!

“Artie, pleeeeeeaaassseeee?” Getting Rachel to stop whining might be the main reason he says yes.  The note her voices rises to just, like, _grates_ against his eardrum and it almost hurts, making him consider agreeing to pretty much anything she might propose, just to make it stop.

“Pretty please?” She continues the onslaught without pausing. “It’s not a personal favor for _me,_ it would be a noble gesture for the good of the entire glee club!” She hits that note again on the words ‘glee club’ and he winces involuntarily. Her hands are clasped in front of her face, fingers laced, and her expression pleading as she dodges—walking backwards—to stay in front of his chair in the crowded hallway.

Apparently, according to Rachel Berry, being a member of the McKinley High School Audio/Visual Club meant you had an unrestricted all-access pass to use the school’s fancy recording equipment at your leisure, for whatever you pleased.

There’s just a few minutes before they have to get to their separate classes and glee is the period after next, so Rachel has only _now_ to get him onboard with borrowing the A/V club’s camera. Otherwise, they’ll have to vote a winner to Schue’s newest competition without the objectivity afforded by recording each team’s performance and viewing them all together—a “suitable twenty-four hour contemplation period” later.

“Our glee club _needs_ —” there’s that note again, “—as much objectivity as can possibly be achieved with the intra-club voting process, especially given our club’s tendency towards cliques!” She pleads with Artie to understand while fat crocodile tears well up, her hand moving to grasp his forearm as they slowly move down the corridor.

Artie rolls his eyes at her characteristic dramatics and sighs. Rachel’s only half-wrong in her assumptions about A/V club members and their privileges with the equipment.

Jacob Ben Israel _,_ as captain, has the unrestricted all-access to use the school’s fancy camcorder. Artie knows that club members can check it out for up to three days by the school’s policy, it’s just that Jacob is always _such_ a dick to people about it that he doesn’t want to deal with it, especially not just because Rachel asked him to.

How much ‘objectivity’ can they really hope for, anyway?

As if she actually _heard_ the thought cross his mind, Rachel stops walking directly in front of him, juts out her lower lip and starts fiddling with her fingers. He watches one lone tear roll down her cheek, tremble a little before dropping off her chin, then darken a spot on the khaki fabric covering his knee.

Maybe since he only needs it for the one afternoon, and mentions that it’s for glee club—Artie is only mildly ashamed to note that he’ll all out name-drop some ‘Rachel Berry’ if it gets ugly out there— _maybe_ he can leverage a bit of generosity from the slimy AV club president.

He realizes that he’s already thinking of this task as something he’s agreed to, even though she’s still in her begging mode, and spares a moment to ‘ _tsk tsk’_ at himself.

“Woman! Hush yo’self.” He grumbles, rolling his eyes again and brushing his fingers over the tiny wet circle on his khakis. “I’ll handle it.”

Rachel squeaks happily—the tears she was harboring only seconds ago somehow evaporating instantly—and bounces up and down on her toes, hands clapping together in victory. She beams and swoops in for an awkward shoulder squeeze.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou, Artie! You’re the absolute _best_!” Rachel pulls back from the hug to resume walking beside him, already outlining her ‘suggestions’ for the recording process.

“Now, you’re at the ideal height for capturing the dancing in each team’s performance, which really is crucial to consider when forming an accurate assessment for voting purposes.” As she wrings her hands together and absently keeps moving forward—eyes glazed in Super Berry Planning Mode—he briefly reconsiders what exactly he's gotten himself into.

“Also, please make sure the lens is zoomed appropriately to include the entire team in the frame for the full duration of their performance, so as not to lose any of the nuance.” Artie is fairly certain she will find fault with him no matter how great of a videographer he is or isn’t, but it strikes him when she continues without taking a breath that it may just be too late for concerns like that.

— — —

“Thanks, guys—that was great! Who’s next?” Mr. Schue congratulates Santana, Mercedes, and Tina and looks around for the next team to perform. Quinn and Finn get up and move to the front of the choir room in reply, and he shuffles off to the side.

Scooting her chair a bit closer to her boyfriend’s, Brittany leans into Artie without taking her eyes off the pair up front. The image on the flip-out screen of the camcorder he’s holding shudders from her movement, and he braces his elbow against the arm of his chair. As soon as Quinn and Finn start singing, Brittany snuggles into his shoulder and the camera jiggles again, just slightly.

It occurs to Artie that he seriously does _not_ want to listen to Rachel’s inevitable commentary on his videographer skills (he imagines a diatribe about the proper muscle control necessary to reduce jitter while filming and his jaw clenches), so he pulls a stool closer to him as discreetly as possible while still recording, casting a quick side-eye glance to make sure she doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t want to hear about his lack of commitment to neutral voting practices and dynamic filming techniques, either.

Craning his neck to see the little screen and make sure the pair are both visible in the shot, Artie sets the device down as gently as he can manage to the flat wooden surface. The lens is zoomed out enough to get the entire front half of the choir room (at least, everything opposite of the risers) in the frame, and Artie settles back in his chair self-satisfied with his own genius.

He risks another verifying peek at Rachel, just to make sure she isn’t sending him disapproving glares of control freak doom.

She’s on the other side of the risers from him and Brittany, Santana in the seat beside her, both of them staring intently at the floor in front of their feet with their heads down. It’s a bit odd.... but Finn trips on a spin in his choreography and almost falls into Artie’s lap, and the seated boy suddenly does not care what the bossy club captain and bitchy Cheerio are looking at.

“Easy there, hoss...” Artie mutters, holding up a gloved hand in defensive reflex. Finn grins sheepishly and only slightly stutters on the lyric he’s singing before falling back into step with Quinn, offering only a helpless shrug to her glare.

Brittany shifts to twist their fingers together, and Artie forgets about Finn almost crushing him. She leans in and brushes her lips against the shell of his ear and his heartbeat speeds up, slowing again when she asks on a whisper why it matters if Finn crushes his legs since he’s half robot, anyway. He sighs and part of him gives up on _ever_ getting her to accept that the chair isn’t a part of his body.

The performances go by quickly, mostly because Artie is barely paying attention—they have to watch them all again tomorrow, anyway—and before he knows it, the bell has rung and he’s wheeling out the door after bouncing red pleats and forever-long legs.

— — —

Rachel lingers by the piano as everyone makes their way out of the choir room, shuffling through sheet music and surreptitiously glancing up from beneath her bangs to see who is still left. She smiles brightly and nods at Mr. Schue as he waves on his way out the door, dropping her attention to the sheet music again as Quinn and Finn walk out behind him.

It takes only a few minutes for the rest of the glee club to disperse until just Santana remains, hunched over a chair on the first riser. She is aggressively digging through her backpack in a manner that implies something important is missing, warding off any interruption from her classmates by force of aura alone.

Dark eyes lift to briefly pin Rachel, shifting away almost immediately to sweep around the room in assessment. There’s a momentary pause—half a second, really—where nothing disturbs the air in the room and they each still in their tasks, listening.

It’s eighth period at McKinley High, which means people have cleared out. There’s only a few classes even held this section and most of those meet on the field, three halls away from the choir room.

Their eyes meet again and hold as Santana slowly licks her lips, Rachel's gaze dropping to watch the motion with a shaky exhale that seems to echo off the walls. They both start moving simultaneously in the next breath.

Rachel turns and marches towards one door of the classroom, abandoned sheet music fluttering across the glossy surface of the piano in her wake; while Santana snaps upright and steps down from the risers to stride purposefully towards the other door.

Twisting the lock, Rachel spins on her heel and leans back against the wood to fix her gaze on Santana, just as the darker girl clicks the other lock and looks back over her shoulder. She slowly turns and starts walking in Rachel’s direction with a smirk, crooking her finger and swinging her hips.

“C’mere, Berry.” Santana’s voice is all smoky smooth, purring over the command. A tight smile thins Rachel’s lips and she takes a few short steps, waiting to see the light of victory in Santana's eyes before she stops.

 _“Tsk tsk tsk_ ,” Rachel tuts at her, wagging her finger in admonishment before crossing her arms over her chest and popping her hip. “You know better than that.” Santana’s grin is wolfish, she knows that’s one of the rules Rachel insisted on for these encounters—her given name must be used.

“Better than to call you closer?” Santana takes another step in her nonchalant approach and her eyes sparkle with mischief, Rachel imagines she can see a kind of affection there, too. “I really should, Fro-don’t, you’re right...” She stops walking in front of the whiteboard, a few steps from reaching distance of Rachel, and cocks her head to the side in feigned contemplation. “I don't know _what's_ gotten into me.”

"Obviously nothing’s gotten _in you_ ," Rachel snaps, rolling her eyes and taking the last few steps to close the distance between them. "Or you wouldn't come sniffing at _my_ skirt for a taste." She shoves against the darker girl's chest with both hands and Santana falls back against the whiteboard with a grunt.

Rachel braces against the board and leans in until Santana can taste the spearmint on her breath. She feels the unsteady breath Santana takes in and can’t fight her smirk when she doesn’t feel its exhale— she's got Santana holding her breath.

"Aw, is Brittany playing with her _boy_ friend today?" Her tone is mocking as she flicks her tongue against Santana's lower lip, pointedly ignoring the glare directed at her. "Poor wittle 'Tana can't get any?" Santana snaps her teeth, almost catching the tip of Rachel’s tongue.

“You wish, Gimli.” She grips Rachel’s hips with the growl and thrusts forward, sending her off-balance just enough to flip their positions so Santana has the girl pinned. "You know those granny panties are just _soaked through_ at the thought of me tasting you..." She nuzzles her way across Rachel's jaw before nipping at the skin and dipping to take her mouth.

Rachel’s smile is infuriatingly smug and taunting when she turns her head to avoid Santana’s kiss, and the darker girl sinks a bite into the tendon of her neck for punishment.

“Down, girl...” Rachel breathes out, bringing her hands up to undo Santana’s ponytail and tangle her fingers in the hair at the back of her head. Santana chuckles darkly against the flesh between her teeth before sliding her way down Rachel’s body until she’s on her knees between the girl’s feet.

“Down...?” She murmurs into Rachel’s thigh, mouthing the soft flesh and taking random bites as she works her way up the inside, one hand holding Rachel’s skirt up and the other digging into her hipbone. “Like here?” A bite accompanies the whisper. “Is this down far enough?” The heavy scent that greets her from beneath the tacky plaid fabric pretty much clears away her commitment to teasing, foreplay’s fun and all but she suddenly has bigger concerns.

Santana swallows heavily, trying not to be disgusted with herself for how much her mouth is watering, just being this close. It’s still jarring sometimes to realize—again—that _God,_ she really is just _so gay_. And gay for Rachel Berry, at that. It’s _embarrassing_.

Rachel tips her head back against the board and indulges for the moment, eyes drifting closed with a soft sigh when Santana's nose grazes over the damp cotton covering her sex.

"Damn, pygmi... you've been thinking about getting my mouth on you all day, haven't you?" Rachel can just barely feel Santana smile against her with the comment, then her eyes are popping open at the dulled sensation of a tongue rubbing over her clit through the fabric. She inhales sharply and tugs the hair wrapped around her fingers hard enough to pull Santana's head back.

"Ah-ah-ah, eager beaver. Aren’t you forgetting something...?" The pitch of Rachel’s voice has dropped and her eyes are dark, betraying exactly how much the little move affected her, despite the control she’s exerting.

Deliberately dragging her tongue over her lips to collect any remnants of flavor, Santana arches her brow when Rachel’s gaze drops to watch. Even with the odd angle of her neck from the tight hold on her hair, Santana’s grin is triumphant.

“You are mere seconds away from literally riding my face, and _I’m_ the ‘eager beaver’?”

“Shut up.” Rachel whispers distractedly, tugging on the hair in her grip and ghosting the fingers of her other hand down the shell of Santana’s ear, the tendons of her neck, the frame of her collarbone. Rachel's lashes flutter prettily against her cheek as she looks down through them at the girl on her knees. “Are you going to address me properly so we can continue?” She shifts her hips forward just slightly to remind Santana of what's at stake in this stand-off, what she will willingly give—and thoroughly enjoy taking—if Santana will just give in.

Rachel enjoys the internal war she can see rumbling and firing in nearly black eyes and pulls at the hair in her fist again, just to watch them roll at the sensation. The rush of power twists pleasurably in her lower belly and she takes a moment to savor the control that eludes her outside of these moments.

Santana has never been known for her stellar obedience, so her response to Rachel’s attempted dominance really shouldn’t be as much of a surprise to the girl as it is. Somehow, though, Rachel still gasps in shock when Santana slips her fingers under the edge of simple white panties—saturated already, a trait of Rachel's that always amazes her—and pulls them aside with a growl, sliding her tongue up the length of Rachel’s folds in one long lick. A low whimper escapes without her permission at the musky flavor on her tongue; she kind of hates herself for it, but she just can’t get enough of Rachel’s taste.

The ragged groan she earns is punctuated by the crack of Rachel’s head against the board, her body bowing forward like it’s welded to Santana’s mouth. Santana smiles before she puckers her lips and suckles, dancing circles around Rachel's clit with the tip of her tongue.

“Weren’t you saying something, Streisand?” She can’t resist pulling back for just a moment to taunt—now that they’re on the same page—before she dips her chin and presses her tongue inside. A low grunt drifts down to her ears and she withdraws before plunging in again, drawing out more of Rachel's taste. Abandoning her hold on the skirt, Santana brings her hand down to brush her fingertips across Rachel’s entrance while sliding her tongue back up to flick oh-so-lightly.

Lost somewhere in the jump of her hips and the string of whimpers escaping her throat, Rachel recognizes that she should stop Santana, knows she will never get the upper hand if she always lets her break the only rules Rachel sets, but it’s just not really feasible when it’s _this_ she’d have to give up. Being in control is suddenly much less important, and Rachel finds herself lifting her own skirt in order to watch Santana work between her thighs.

“No?” Santana looks up with a feral glint in her eye and hunger written all over her expression, pressing her fingertips in a circular motion—not penetrating, just hinting at it and driving Rachel crazy. There's really nothing as satisfying as Rachel's unabashed desire, and Santana can't seem to get her fill of pushing the girl to this point. “Something you were asking me, Idina?” Rachel squeezes her eyes closed, arching her hips forward and using her grip on Santana’s hair to pull her in closer.

“Shut _up_ , ‘Tana, _fuck._ ” She mutters through clenched teeth, trying to work her hips to get those teasing fingers inside, unashamed that she’s full-on rubbing herself against Santana’s mouth. “There are _better_ ,” she bucks with the word and a vague part of mind wonders if it’s possible to break someone’s nose this way, “uses...” another buck, “for your _fucking mouth_...” Rachel’s voice cracks on the last words when two fingers slide inside her without warning.

Santana can’t help herself, the only time she ever hears Rachel swear is when they’re together like this and it has a Pavlovian effect, adding an element of urgency to her movement—she _needs_ to make Rachel come in her mouth, like, _right fucking now_. She presses her fingers deeper, scissoring them inside before curling forward on the out-stroke, sucking Rachel’s clit in an alternating rhythm to her thrusts.

“ _Fuck_ , just like that... unggh, ‘Tana, _yessssssss_ , suck my clit...” Rachel doesn’t seem quite aware of the words falling from her lips, brows drawn tightly together in concentration and her eyes still squeezed closed. Santana releases the slick flesh with a wet pop and keeps working her fingers while she stares. It still amazes her how expressive Rachel’s face is, every sensation telegraphing across the girl’s features and rippling through Santana's body as viscerally as a touch.

“Open your eyes.” She commands quietly, her voice rough as her hand keeps working. Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, Rachel shakes her head with a high-pitched whine, clawing desperately at the back of Santana’s head while her hips continue rocking. “Open your eyes or I’ll stop right now.” It’s an empty threat, nothing short of a fucking natural disaster would make Santana stop at this point, but she wants to watch Rachel come undone.

Rachel’s eyes flutter open and narrow down at Santana, rolling a little unfocused in her head with every push of Santana’s fingers against that soft spot inside.

“Finish what you started, Santana,” she murmurs lowly, demandingly pulling again at the back of Santana’s head. “Make me come.” Santana’s smirk is a little annoying, but Rachel lets it slide because that talented mouth is back, tongue touching everywhere but exactly where Rachel wants it. She struggles to hold the intense eye-contact, Santana’s eyes are dark and warm as they watch her unravelling. There’s something in them that looks to Rachel like actual _want_ , and it settles deep in her chest, spreading electric heat to lower belly.

“Is that what you want, baby?” Santana rasps against Rachel’s flesh, rubbing the flat of her tongue in between speaking. “You wanna come for me?” She slides in a third finger with her next thrust and Rachel’s eyes roll again, drifting closed without her intent. She bites her lip, whimpering and bucking and completely unhinged, nodding frantically and flexing her fingers in Santana’s hair.

“I wanna see your eyes...” Santana whispers quickly, sucking Rachel’s clit back into her mouth and battering it with the tip of her tongue. “ _Rachel_ , let me see you.” The words are almost too desperate and a voice mocks Santana from the back of her own mind, but Rachel’s eyes snap open and lock with Santana’s at the sound of her name so fervently prayed.

They hold the heated stare as Santana continues her deep strokes, and within only a few moments Rachel’s insides are fluttering and clamping down on the fingers inside her. Her body tenses and jerks forward, fingers tightening almost painfully in Santana's hair, before a sharp cry escapes and Rachel’s gasping while her body spasms.

Santana rides the storm, gripping tighter to Rachel's hips and pressing in deeper to hold on _—so gay_ for Rachel Berry, and right now she doesn't even mind. She finally removes her fingers as gently as possible minutes later, while languidly licking away the remnants of Rachel’s release. She moves the hand holding Rachel's panties aside and settles back on her knees with a grin, her face still shining with wetness.

“You _really_ love the sound of your own name, don’t you?” The jibe is tender, and Rachel scoffs lightly.

“You know, you don’t have to continue being such an ass when it’s just us, no one else can see.” Rachel’s tone is somehow simultaneously gentle and sultry as she tugs Santana to her feet and pulls their bodies together. “I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone that you have the capacity to be kind.” The words are whispered while she licks away her own arousal from Santana’s lips and chin, sliding her hand up Santana’s thigh at the same time. “Who would believe me, anyway?” She finally kisses Santana just as she cups her hand over soaked panties, sucking the other girl’s tongue into her mouth and relishing the flavor of Santana’s lip gloss and _herself_ mixed together.

The handle to the door rattles from the other side and they both freeze in place, eyes wide and breath held. It jiggles a few times before they hear footsteps walking away, and both release air shakily.

“That was close.” Santana whispers. Rachel nods with a swallow.

“To be continued later?” Rachel whispers back. Santana nods once, pushing off the wall and away from Rachel to go collect her backpack from the risers.

After getting down on her knees to peek under the door—Santana’s eyes roving over her ass in such a way that she can actually _feel_ the look—Rachel lets Santana leave first, just in case anyone is in the hallway.

“You owe me an orgasm, _eager beaver_. AND I expect interest paid on the debt.” Santana says quietly, kissing Rachel’s cheek and ducking out the door before the smaller girl can register her shock. She sighs with a goofy half-smile. It’s not love, but it’s something.

The camera resting on the stool in the corner by the risers continues to silently tape the front of the classroom, as Rachel collects her sheet music and walks out with a bounce in her step and uncomfortably squishy panties.

— — —

Artie is half-way through a quest in Fallout 3 that evening when he spontaneously remembers the camera he left in the choir room.

Fuck.

He has a decision to make: find someone who can pick it up for him, or deal with not only Jacob being a supremely smug jerk about the equipment, but also the wrath of the glee club (or at least the wrath of Rachel) when he doesn’t have the DVD for them to vote on tomorrow.

Double Fuck.

His dad is _not_ going to want to drive him back up to the school he was just picked up from, Brittany doesn’t drive, and no one else he knows would still be up there except maybe Rachel, which, just no.

Finn! Finn has football practice and only lives a few blocks away, and considers himself just enough of a good guy to help out a fellow glee-clubber. Artie figures if anyone would be able to sympathize with his fear of Rachel's wrath, it'd be Finn.

He grabs his phone and types out a text before he can talk himself out of trusting the bumbling boy. He really doesn’t have many other options, he has to have the camera back to Jacob by morning since he only checked it out for the one afternoon.

He checks the display again to see that no, Finn didn't text back in the last forty-five seconds, before un-pausing to distract himself from the mini-crisis while he waits.

All that keeps repeating in his mind is this is exactly what he gets for doing Rachel Berry a favor.

_— — —_

After agreeing to help Artie out, Finn swings by the choir room after practice and finds it locked for some reason. Shrugging massive shoulders, he shuffles down the hall to find the janitor to come unlock it for him, only to get a dirty look when it's somehow unlocked again when they return. He's not too worried about it, though, that guy has hated him since freshman year when Finn puked in his mop bucket outside of bio _—_ those frogs were _gross_ on the inside.

He finds the camcorder on the stool where Artie said it would be and picks it up like it’s made of glass, closing the flip-out screen as gently as possible and holding it in his palm. Artie made it sound like this thing was like, _super fragile_ and Finn has never been good with things that break easily.

He almost drops it when his phone buzzes in his pocket while he’s on his way out to his pickup, and he decides to wait until he can set it down on the seat before checking the message.

**Quinn  
** _Just a reminder because you’re a gigantic idiot, McDonalds is not date appropriate and neither are jeans. Don’t be late. AGAIN._

Shit, he has a date with Quinn that he’s supposed to pick her up for in—he looks at the clock on his dashboard—thirty minutes. He peals out of the high school parking lot towards home, hauling ass to get there and change so he’s not late. She’s _such_ a bitch when he’s late. He thinks she’s kind of a bitch all the time, but she said he could touch her boobs tonight because he only screwed up once in their song today, and that’s as good a reason as any he can think of to try and make her less mad.

Does he even _have_ pants that aren’t jeans?

His phone buzzes on the bed while he’s in the shower, thanking whatever God might listen to a kid in the shower that guys don’t take long to get ready. He doesn’t even have time to jerk off before the date, which is probably a bad idea when there’s boobs on the menu tonight, but if he’s late there won’t be boobs, anyway, so it’s kind of one of those catch 42 things he hears people talk about. Maybe it was 22, but he’s pretty sure that’s a gun, and 42 sounds right.

He stuffs his phone in his pocket without looking at it while he’s rushing out the door and doesn’t think about it again for a few hours, because really. Boobs.

— — —

**Artie  
** _Did u get it? R u comin by?_

_?_

_Dude at least answr me!_

_Weak. Thx 4 nothing. u coulda just said no_

Finn sees the messages when he takes out his phone to text Quinn goodnight, just after dropping her off at home. Chicks dig that thoughtful shit, and he’s seriously hoping for under the shirt _and_ under the bra next time, if he can just keep her not mad at him.

He dials Artie's number and tries not to think about the painful tightness in his pants that is seriously _not_ being helped by thoughts of under the bra while he waits.

“Finn?” Artie sounds like he was asleep, damn.

“Dude! I’m so sorry, I had a date with Quinn and, like, we were—”

“I really don’t want to know, Finn. Do you have the camcorder?”

“Yeah, man, look, if you’re still up I can bring it by on my way home?” Finn feels really bad for forgetting but it hasn’t escaped his notice that he’s the one doing Artie a favor, so he doesn’t feel as bad as he might if it were someone like his mom or Rachel that he’d disappointed. Quinn’s always disappointed with him, so he figures that means she doesn’t count.

“Yeah, just hurry. Hey, text me when you get here ‘cause my parents are already asleep. Don’t knock or honk or something stupid like that, okay, Finn?”

Finn’s pretty well tired of people calling him stupid all the time, but he lets Artie get away with it because he knows he screwed up this one. At least he says it flat out, Quinn likes to use all these words that make his head hurt and half the time he can’t tell if she’s calling him lazy or stupid or what. 

He pulls up in front of Artie’s house less than ten minutes later, feeling like some kind of ninja burglar or something when Artie tells him to come to the window on the south side of the house. He’s not sure which direction south is, but Artie tells him it’s the one by the tree and he’s relieved to find there’s only one tree in the yard.

Artie's already at the window when Finn walks up, looking sleepy and kinda mad. Finn carefully hands over the camera, putting on his FBI spy agent face.

"The package has been delivered." He says in his best gravelly and badass voice. Artie just rolls his eyes.

"Thanks for picking it up for me," he mutters half-heartedly, the guy _did_ save his ass. "See you tomorrow, Finn." He pulls the window closed in Finn's face, a tight smile offered before pulling the curtains closed, too.

_— — —_

When Artie wakes up in the morning, the first thing he does is check the burn process on his laptop. He hooked it up and clicked ‘Start’ last night before crawling back into bed, riding on faith that it would do its thang overnight and be done in time for school in the morning.

Wheeling up to his desk apprehensively, he releases the breath he was holding when he sees the DVD drawer is popped out and a "Burn Complete" pop up box is up on screen.

"Suh- _weeeet!_ " He says out loud, popping a quick wheelie on his way to the bathroom to get ready for school.

_— — —_

"Alright, guys, got your scorecards out? Are we ready to pick the winning team?" Schue claps his hands in excitement and grins from the front of the choir room as murmurs of less-enthused agreement ripple back to him from the club. He drags the TV stand up front and puts in the DVD, clicking off the lights and sitting down with the kids to watch the performances from the day before.

The recording plays through, Artie ignoring Rachel's glare when the camera bounces during Quinn & Finn's routine. The last team finishes a short while later and Schue gets up to go click on the lights while the video continues playing, showing everyone filtering out of the room after practice yesterday.

"Do you guys need some time to go over your votes?" Schue's question gathers some mutters with Rachel’s voice notably absent, her eyes instead glued to the screen with mounting apprehension. The room quiets as everyone’s attention is drawn back to the TV, where Rachel has just locked the choir room door with an all-together sultry look directed off-screen.

"C _'mere, Berry."_ Santana freezes at the sound of her own voice.

 _Tsk tsk tsk_ ,” Rachel’s voice tuts in response, _“You know better than that.”_ Santana’s gaze snaps to Rachel to see her own panic mirrored back at her.

" _Better than to call you closer?”_ Santana’s eyes widen almost comically and she’s fairly certain her stomach starts escaping through her toes when she looks back to the screen just in time to see herself stroll into the frame. _“I really should, Fro-don’t, you’re right...I don’t know **what’s** gotten into me...”  _ Knowing what happens next, she and Rachel lunge for the TV at the same time.

 _"Obviously nothing’s gotten_ **_in you_** , _"_ Rachel’s voice snaps, both girls reaching the wheeled stand at the same time, pushing it back a few inches from the force of their arrival.

Rachel fake giggles nervously, attempting to block the screen from the confused rest of the club while Santana is hunched over jabbing frantically for a stop, pause, power, _ANY_ thing button on the DVD player. _"Or you wouldn't come sniffing at **my** —_” She hits a button and the sound finally stops, two sets of shoulders sagging in relief.

“Holy shit...” Mike is actually the one to speak out loud, an icy knot forming in Santana’s stomach as she straightens to see the screen.

Moving in fast-forward, there she is on her knees, Rachel’s head thrown back against the whiteboard with her mouth hanging open and her hand buried in Santana’s hair, while jerky super-fast movements remove any question about what they’re doing.

Rachel turns around to face the screen and Santana notices abstractly that the light from the TV casts a pallor to her normally tanned skin. She sweeps a look over the rest of the people in the room: Schue looking down at the floor with waves of awkward discomfort tangibly coming off of him, Finn with a constipated look of mixed arousal and upset, Quinn’s shock starting to wear off with an evil smirk forming, Sam glaring at her (apparently still pissed about being dumped a couple weeks ago) and Puck leering.

When she finally lets her eyes rest on Brittany, her heart spasms in her chest. Even holding tightly to Artie’s hand, the blonde just looks _broken_. Santana turns and rips the power cord from the back of the DVD player, but the video is already showing an empty choir room.

“Can I get a copy of that DVD?” Puck’s voice breaks the silence, and it spurs everyone from their stupor. Rachel whips around to face them all with her shoulders squared and her expression haughty.

“ _No_ , Noah. We are grown women, and what happens between adults is none of _any_ of your business.” She sniffs and folds her arms across her chest, not daring to look at Santana.

“Girl, I don’t even _wanna_ know.” Mercedes chimes in. “I could’ve happily gone without seeing that.” Tina nods in agreement beside her.

“I’d like to see it in normal time.” Puck grins, earning a smack from Lauren beside him.

“Okay, guys, I think that’s enough excitement for today.” Schue says thinly, looking like he isn’t sure how to be a teacher anymore. “Think on the performances and we’ll vote first thing in tomorrow’s class.”

Everyone is slow to shuffle out except Brittany, who beelines for the door with Artie close at her heels. Finn is dragged out behind Quinn, casting disappointed looks back to Rachel the whole time, while the rest of the club collects their things and trickles out. Puck almost loses a chunk of his mohawk when Lauren and Santana both yank on it from opposite directions to stop him from ejecting the DVD.

Rachel sits down in her chair on the first row, staring at her fingers and trying to ignore the bustle around her. She steals a glance at Santana, their eyes meeting for a brief second before darting away again awkwardly. Schue watches them both with a wary expression, unwilling to leave the choir room after seeing what happens when he does.

“‘Tana?” Rachel questions softly. Santana stops fiddling with her backpack but doesn’t look up. “Santana, please...” Santana’s eyes squeeze closed and grips the strap of her backpack until her knuckles are white.

“Rachel, don’t.” She breathes out. “I can’t do this... I just _can’t._ ” With that she swings the bag up onto her shoulder and quickly walks out of the room. Rachel sighs and gets to her feet.

At least Santana called her by name.


End file.
